


with no one to make them afraid

by orphan_account



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Hurricanes & Typhoons, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lullabies, Malaria, Pneumonia, Prayer, Washingdad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex has just been moved out of one foster home, and placed with a new family: the Washingtons. So far, they seem nice, and their other foster son—Gil—is friendly, but Alex is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. </p><p>There’s something sinister at Mount Vernon, Alex is sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Micah 4:4  
>  _Each of them will sit under his vine_  
>    _And under his fig tree,_  
>    _With no one to make them afraid,_  
>    _For the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken._  
>     
> (Hover over French text for translations and over the superscript numbers for footnotes.)

Alex stared out the window of the car as forest rolled by. The social worker had claimed his new home was on a large estate in Virginia—so far the Virginia part was accurate, but that was all. He hadn’t seen the house yet, so he couldn’t speak for the large or estate, but so far it seemed more like he would be living in a cabin in the woods.

The gentle bumps of the car must have lulled him to sleep, because the next thing he knew the car had stopped and the social worker was shaking his shoulder gently. He pushed her hand away and stepped out of the car, holding his small bag close to his chest. The books were heavy in his arms and bumped against his sore ribs whenever he shifted.

There was no sign of a house, just a trimmed lawn bordered by trees, leaves afire in reds and oranges. It was nice, he supposed, but impersonal. There was no signs of life, but artistically planted trees and curving paths. The setting sun cast long shadows upon the green.

“The Washingtons live just a bit up the road,” the social worker explained. “It’s not that long of a walk, really. If you look closely, you can see their house from here.” She pointed at a red blur on the horizon.

They walked through the white painted fence and up the swept dirt path along the side of the lawn, the social worker—whose name Alex should probably remember but didn’t—chatting about how the Washingtons were lovely people with another foster son[1] about Alex’s age.

_Great_ , Alex thought bitterly, _that makes everything so much better._

He tried to keep the bitterness off his face, because who knows what she would do if she thought she was being disrespected or sassed.  

The walk was long, and the late afternoon sun was hot on Alex’s back as they walked. Despite the month, there was no wind and the trees that bordered the path provided no shade. Autumn leaves crunched underfoot. His only consolation was that he was wearing old and comfortable sneakers, and not the heels that the social worker was wearing.

He wasn’t technically supposed to have the sneakers anymore. His previous foster family had tried to burn the few belongings that he arrived with, including his mother’s books, and so he had disobeyed them and snuck everything he could out. Most of the clothes he accepted as a loss; they weren’t all that great anyway, but the books he couldn’t part with, and the shoes he stole with them.

He had tried to run that night. It hadn’t gone well. But he had managed to hide the books, and that was worth it. Now they were the only things in his bag besides a clean change of clothes.

The thoughts of his first disobedience lead to a cascade of similar memories that made the still-healing bruises on his back sting in remembered pain.

“Alex? Alex?” Oh no. The social worker had been talking and he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Yes?” he said, shoulders tensed in preparation for the blow.

“I was just saying that you need to watch your step, since there’s a tree root across the path.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He stepped over the root, sneakers sending up small plumes of dust. He glanced up and saw the house for the first time: a tall and imposing manor, a red roof rising above the trees. The house was two stories tall, with green shutters on the many windows. Half-hidden by the trees were two more buildings, connected to the main house by covered walkways. It looked warm in the late afternoon light, and a broad, sedate river glistened behind the house.

Alex was immediately distrustful. Any household that put so much effort into appearing nice was hiding something. There were probably bodies buried behind the garden.[2]  

As they got closer to the house, Alex’s legs were starting to get sore. Sitting down for so long and then suddenly having to walk a while was taking its toll on his muscles—to say nothing of the aches and pains that had sunk bone-deep into his flesh from his latest disciplining. His ribs he ignored, because if he stopped every time they hurt, he would never get anything done.

The social worker raised a hand and knocked twice on the door. Alex held his bag tight against his chest, heart pounding. The door swung open, revealing Mr. Washington: tall and bald, cutting an imposing figure in a probably-expensive suit.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Washington.”

“Ah, Eleanor! We were wondering when you would arrive. And you must be Alexander.” He sounded friendly.

“Alex,” he corrected, tossing the bait out. With Eleanor there, he probably wouldn’t react with violence, but still…

“Alex, then. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come in, Martha and Gil have been excited to meet you.” Gil must be the other foster son Eleanor had mentioned.

Mr. Washington led them inside, and Alex immediately began taking stock of the house. The walls looked like mahogany,[3]  and the back doors were open, revealing the river Alex had glimpsed as they approached. Framed photographs hung on the wall. It looked…nice. Homey.

“Gil! Martha!” Mr. Washington called up the staircase. “Alex is here!”

First to arrive was a boy, taller than Alex, bounding down the stairs two and three at a time, half-sliding down the bannister. His wild curly hair was barely contained by an elastic, his eyes alive and dancing with excitement and he was speaking rapid French.

“Tu es le nouvel enfant de papa et maman, non? Je m’appelle Gilbert, mais tu peux m'appeler Gil. Comment t'appelles-tu?”

“Je m’appelle Alexander, mais appelez-moi Alex. Il est agréable de te rencontrer, Gil.”

Gil stopped short as their brief conversation caught up to him. “Wait. You speak French?”[4]

“Obviously, I do. My mother was French.”[5]

Gil laughed. “Well, this is even better than I was hoping! Neither of the Washingtons speak French besides a few words.” He grabbed Alex in a bone-crushing bear hug, lifting him off the ground and making all of the bruises hurt.

Alex didn’t make a sound as his ribs protested.

“Gil! Let the boy breathe, dear.” This was a warm, feminine voice, not Eleanor’s—must be Mrs. Washington. Gil released him and he struggled to catch his breath.

“Of course, Maman. Maman, this is Alex!”

“So I heard. Hello, Alex, welcome to Mount Vernon. I’m Martha.”

“Mr. Washington, Mrs. Washington, can I have a word with you two in private?” Eleanor said. Probably to tell them about how Alex was disobedient and rude.

“Of course. Gil, why don’t you show Alex around the house? We’ll be in the West Parlor if you need us.”

“Sure, Papa. C’mon, Alex.” Gil grabbed Alex by the hand, half-crushing his fingers, and pulled Alex up the stairs.

“This is the second floor, where all the bedrooms are—this one is mine,[6]” he gestured to one room, “But all the others are open, you can pick whichever you want. There are four bedrooms upstairs too, but those are smaller and the ceiling is lower. Maman and Papa live in another room above Papa’s study.”

Gil pulled Alex into each of the rooms. They all looked the about same: a large four-poster bed surrounded by heavy curtains. They had nightstands and desks, chairs and bookshelves, and yet were impersonal—well, aside from Gil’s room—there were no clothes in the closets, no books on the shelves. The beds were freshly made and the pillows fluffed.

“These rooms were guest rooms back when Maman and Papa didn’t have any kids,” Gil explained. “But now they have the two of us, and so they aren’t guest rooms any more. Well, I suppose some of them will still be guest rooms, there are only two of us.” Gil laughed, and his good mood was infectious. Alex found himself relaxing, cracking a smile. “So, got a preference?”

Alex made a few quick calculations. “The white one was nice.” Also, the one farthest from the Washingtons’ bedroom, but Gil didn’t need to know that. He probably had made the same calculation when he picked his own room.

“That’s right next to mine! I knew you had good taste. C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the house.” Gil lead Alex up a flight of stairs and up a ladder to a small, octagonal tower. “You can see the whole estate from up here. Well, no, you can’t, because there is so much farmland and forests,[7] but you can see all the buildings and across the Potomac to Maryland.” From the height, Alex couldn't make out individual trees, just a mass of bare branches and flame-colored leaves.

Alex was breathless. “This is all…the Washingtons own all of this?”

“Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom. Except that bit over across the river, that’s the Piscataway National Park.”

“It’s huge,” Alex breathed.

“Maman and Papa don’t come up here, so whenever we fight, I come up here to cool off.”

Alex couldn’t even process that statement. There was so much wrong with it Alex didn’t even know where to start. He fought with the Washingtons? Often enough that the cupola was where he went to cool off, and they didn’t follow him, teach him a lesson? It had been one of the earliest lessons taught to Alex even before his placement in a foster home, back when he was just another scrawny kid in an overcrowded group home. _Don’t talk back._

Gil continued talking about something or other, oblivious. Was there some kind of trick here, trying to lull Alex into complacency by acting like the Washingtons were as kind as they appeared, so that he could take advantage of it, somehow?

“Alex? Alex? Earth to Alex?” Gil waved a hand in front of Alex’s eyes. He blinked.

“Sorry, I must have spaced out.”

“Hey, it’s cool. It’s a lot to take in. C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the ground floor.”

Gil led the way down the ladder and stairs, all the way back down to the central passage. Alex tried to hide the way the trip left him out of breath.

“Maman and Papa and Mademoiselle Eleanor are probably still in the West Parlor, so we’ll avoid that, but there’s still a lot of the house left to show you. This is the little parlor,” Gil led Alex into a small blue room with a piano in a corner, “And this is the new room.” The so-called new room was huge, two stories tall, with turquoise walls and accents in white and darker shades of aquamarine. Large windows, framed with gentle white curtains, let in light. Framed paintings hung on the walls. Chairs were pushed to the walls, freeing up the floor.

“That’s the West Parlor, over there,” Gil pointed to a closed door. “They’re probably finalizing paperwork in there, which is super boring and we’re going to ignore them. C’mon, there’s still a few more rooms to show you.”

Gil lead Alex back through the little parlor and back into the central passage. The other rooms were mostly a blur; a guest bedroom, the dining room, Mr. Washington’s study.

Alex’s ribs had given up protesting and had started rioting in his chest. Every breath he took felt like a gasp, and he was pretty sure he could taste blood.

“Alex? Alex!” Gil sounded alarmed. “Alexandre!” The lights were very bright, but Gil’s voice was growing more distant.

“Merde, merde, que devrais-je faire? Alex, peux-tu m’entendre? MAMAN! PAPA! AIDE!”

Gil’s panicked screams and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was the last thing Alex heard before he slipped from wakefulness entirely.

* * *

Alex awoke in an unfamiliar bed, and for a moment, wasn’t sure where he was. The bed was the softest bed he had ever been on, and the warmest. His eyelids were heavy, and everything hurt. What happened? Where was he?

Someone was saying something, words in frantic French. “Et à l'heure de notre…de notre mort. Amen. Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces, le Seigneur est avec vous; vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes, et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pécheurs, maintenant, et à l'heure de notre m-mort. Amen. Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces—”[8]

The voice faltered off as he forced his eyes open.

“Alex? Alex! Oh, Dieu merci, tu es vivant, j'avais tellement peur! Ne me fais jamais peur comme ça, tu extends?” A dark face framed with wild curls appeared over him. Gil. So he was at the Washingtons’ house.

“Désolé. Je n'ai pas l'intention de.” He could barely get the words out, and was certain they were slurred beyond recognition.

“Je n’ai pas l’intention de?» J’espère que non!” Gil sounded odd. His voice was rough, his eyes rimmed with red. “Alex, je pensais que tu ne réveilleras jamais. Je…Je pensais que je te perdrai.” Tears welled up in his dark eyes, but he kept going, switching from French to English. “I was so scared when you collapsed and then Papa told me you had broken ribs and he didn’t say it but I know it was my fault, I should have noticed you were tired but I kept pulling you around and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Tears fell from his eyes, sticking to his lashes and tracing shining trails down his cheeks.

Alex had never been more confused. Why—had Gil been the one he had heard praying? Why was he crying? What was going on? And why was Gil blaming himself? Alex had disobeyed, Alex had brought the punishment on himself, and the fact that he had ended up in bed was because Alex wasn’t good enough.

“Gil, ’s not your fault. ’S mine. I brought it on myself ‘cuz I’m too stupid to follow orders.”

“Orders?” Gil repeated, but Alex continued on.

“I broke the rules so I got punished. I gotta live with the con–con–” The word mutated into a hacking cough that set his chest on fire.

“Consequences?” Gil said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Alex, what kind of ‘consequences’ involve broken ribs?”

Alex tried to respond, but the cough just got worse. He could barely draw air into his aching lungs.

“Merde. PAPA! MAMAN!” Gil shouted. Loud footsteps drew closer and closer into the room, and Mr. Washington appeared in the doorway. He looked…disheveled, that was the word. His tie was draped around his neck, untied, and his shirt was rumpled. The suit jacket Alex had seen earlier was gone.

Mr. Washington reached down towards Alex’s shoulders, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching away, into the pillow and mattress. Mr. Washington stopped, his hands giving one last abortive twitch towards Alex.

“Gil, lift his shoulders and help him sit up.” Gil did, propping Alex’s torso on some pillows. The coughing came easier, though it still hurt. “Good. Does that feel better, Alex?”  
Alex nodded. The coughs started to slow down until he could breathe again.

“Here, Alex.” Mr. Washington passed him a cup. “It’s just water.” He took a hesitant sip, making sure it was just water. Satisfied it was only what Mr. Washington said it was, he drank greedily, letting the water soothe his sore throat. It felt like heaven.

Heaven—Mama— _the books_.

“Where’s my bag?” he asked. Despite the water, his voice was like sandpaper.

“Your bag is on the table to your right. Gil brought it up for you.” Alex turned in the bed, trying to find it. There it was; faded gray and bursting at the seams with books. It didn’t look like any were missing. “We didn’t take anything out. Everything is still in there,” Mr. Washington said, like he knew what Alex was thinking.

Like he wanted Alex to feel safe. And in Alex’s experience, it was the ones who wanted you to feel safe that would make you feel the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] His name is Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. You may have heard of him.  
> [2] Actually, behind the South Lane, but close.  
> [3] The first floor of Mount Vernon was made of pine that was grained to look like the more expensive mahogany.  
> [4] Alexander does, but the author can only use Google Translate. If something's inaccurate, leave a comment and correct me.  
> [5] Partially.  
> [6] The Lafayette room, of course.  
> [7] 500 acres of it, in fact.  
> [8] Lafayette was Roman Catholic. He's praying the rosary.
> 
> Translations:  
> Toi êtes nouvel enfant de papa et maman, non? Je m’appelle Gilbert, mais tu peux me appeler Gil. Quel est ton nom? // You're mom and dad's new child, right? My name is Gilbert, but you can call me Gil. What's your name?  
> Je m’appelle Alexander, mais appelez-moi Alex. Il est agréable de te rencontrer, Gil. // My name is Alexander, but call me Alex. It's nice to meet you, Gil.  
> Merde, merde, que devrais-je faire? Alex, peux-tu m’entendre? MAMAN! PAPA! AIDE! // Shit, shit, what should I do? Alex, can you hear me? MOM! DAD! HELP!  
> Et à l'heure de notre…de notre mort. Amen. Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces, le Seigneur est avec vous; vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes, et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pécheurs, maintenant, et à l'heure de notre m-mort. Amen. Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces— // And in the hour of our…of our death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our d-death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace—  
> Alex? Alex! Oh, Dieu merci, tu es vivant, j'avais tellement peur! Ne jamais me faire peur ça, tu entends? // Oh, thank God, you're alive, I was so scared! Never scare me like that again, do you hear me?  
> Désolé. Je n'ai pas l'intention de. // Sorry. I didn't mean to.  
> «Je n’ai pas l’intention de?» J’espère que non! Alex, je pensais que tu pourriez ne jamais se réveiller. Je…Je pensais que je te perdre. // 'I didn't mean to?' I hope not! Alex, I thought you might never wake up. I…I thought I had lost you.  
> Merde. PAPA! MAMAN! // Shit. DAD! MOM!


	2. Chapter 2

Gil had never been so terrified as he was watching the unsteady rise and fall of Alex’s chest. All of his limbs were still, a far cry from the nervous energy that lit in Alex’s eyes and the fire that propelled the smaller boy forward. He had only known Alex for a few short hours, and yet he had crept his way into Gil’s heart and made a home there.

He had been so small in Papa’s arms. The image was forever seared upon his eyes: Alex’s limp form, the harsh gasps of breath and the stillness that stretched impossibly long between them, the dark brown hair resting against Papa’s shoulder and the bone-thin arm that hung down from his shoulder.

Even more terrifying was what Gil had seen when Papa and Maman stripped Alex of his jacket and shirt: Gil could see each of Alex’s ribs, except for in one area, where his chest was swollen and bruised.

Painted in damning greens and yellows across his back, chest, and arms were the bruises, the pink welts, the dark red scabs; evidence of the words Maman and Papa whispered about while Gil stood guard over Alex. Abuse, rib fracture, malnutrition: words that Gil pretended he hadn’t heard when Papa came in and slowly told Gil that Alex had been through a lot, that he needed to be gentle with Alex, that Alex had a broken rib and needed to heal.

Gil began praying the rosary, hoping desperately that God would not be so cruel as to take his brother away as soon as he arrived, that the Lord would spare Alex.

During the Hail Marys, Alex awoke, and if Gil had a single shred of doubt that Papa and Maman were wrong and there had been some mistake, Alex speaking of consequences and disobedience destroyed it and Alex flinching away from Papa banished its ghost forever.

Papa left not long after, when Alex’s eyes had closed again.

The part of Gil that still wanted to be a Musketeer[1], a knight in shining armor, defender of the innocent—he wanted to murder whoever had hurt Alex. No one should look so small, lying in a bed. No one should flinch away from hands reaching down to help them up.

He entertained the thought for a moment—Alex, the young prince, heroically rescued from a villain’s clutches and delivered to the good king, and Gil, the dashing musketeer defending him from evil—then Alex whimpered and the daydream vanished. All of Gil’s attention focused on Alex. He had fallen asleep again, his breaths still erratic and shallow. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Gil laid a gentle hand on Alex’s face to wipe them away, and recoiled in shock. Alex’s skin was burning hot to the touch.

“Maman! Papa!”

Maman arrived first, worry creasing her round face. “Gil, what is it?”

“I think Alex has a fever. He was warm to the touch, and sweating.”

Maman laid her hand on Alex’s forehead and on each of his cheeks. “Gil, get the thermometer. It’s likely that Alex has an infection.”

Gil ran out the door and into the hall bathroom,[2] searching the cabinet for a thermometer. Prize in hand, he returned to the room. Maman held Alex up while she took his temperature.

“He’s at a hundred and two point five. Get some more water, will you?”

Gil ran to get the largest cup he could, and fill it, and then forced himself to move slowly up the stairs and back into Alex’s room. Maman tipped a trickle into Alex’s mouth, holding his mouth closed to make him swallow.

Maman had raised other children,[3] before Gil had arrived in America, and Gil didn’t ask where they were or why they didn’t ever come to visit.[4] It was an accepted part of life, the same as why Papa would sometimes lock himself in his study or why Gil wasn’t allowed in the study at all.

She held Alex in her arms with the surety of someone who had done this before.[5]

“Thank you, Gil. Can you also get a quilt? There should be some in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

The iron chest opened easily, and Gil pulled out a carefully-folded floral quilt. He handed it to Maman, who tucked it around Alex.

Gil fingered the beads of the rosary in his pocket, thumb resting on the cross. _Oh God, please, don’t let him die._ It wasn’t poetry, just the desperate words of a single soul crying out.

Maman coaxed another trickle of water down Alex’s throat.

“Gil, you should get some sleep. It’s late.”

“No way! Alex could get worse—”

“And what good will you be to him half-asleep? Alex will be fine.”

“What about his rib?”

“Gil. I need you to trust me, and I need you to sleep. Get some rest. Alex won’t die in the night. No, don’t give me that look, I’ll be with him for a few more hours, and this isn’t life-threatening. I know you’re scared, I am too, but you need to rest.”

“Maman—” he tried one last time.

Maman responded with a stern Look and a sterner voice. “Gilbert. Go. To. Bed.”

Hell would obey her.

* * *

Gil’s dreams that night were unquiet. Visions of sickness and plague, a great storm of misery, and a young boy crying for his mother.

Then he woke up and the nightmare was real.

He jumped out of bed, leaving the bedclothes in a rumpled heap behind him. His bare feet slapped against the wooden floors as he threw open the door to Alex’s room and found Alex in bed, tossing and turning. Tears rolled down his face as he begged for Mama.

”Alex, chou, je suis ici. Tu es en sécurité. Tout ira bien, je le promets,” Gil whispered, stroking his tangled hair. “Chou, chou, tout ira bien.”

Alex seemed to relax a bit into Gil’s touch. He tried to remember what Maman would do, when he had a nightmare or a fever. She would reassure him, and sing a lullaby to help him sleep, but he couldn’t remember any of the lullabies she would sing. He searched further back in memory, to the distant star of a half-forgotten tune. Grand-mère would sing this to him, long ago and far away, when he couldn’t sleep:

_  Au clair de la lune,  _  
_Mon ami Pierrot,_  
_Prête-moi ta plume_  
_Pour écrire un mot._  
_Ma chandelle est morte,_  
_Je n'ai plus de feu._  
_Ouvre-moi ta porte_  
_Pour l'amour de Dieu._

It worked, or at least seemed to. Alex’s breathing grew steadier, his eyebrows unknit, and his face relaxed. With a gentle exhale of “Mama…” he grew silent.

Gil panicked and searched for a heartbeat. There it was, steady and strong in his chest. Even through the cotton sheets, he could feel the heat of the fever that burned in Alex, a painful reminder that he wasn’t alright. Alex rolled over, trapping Gil’s hand under him.

“Alex, let me go,” Gil whispered, trying to pull his hand free. Alex mumbled something in his sleep.

Fine. If Alex wanted Gil to stay, he would. He climbed onto the bed beside his brother, curled up against him, and waited.

Alex moved closer in, head against Gil’s chest and his hair falling into Gil’s face.

Before Gil realized it, he was asleep. 

* * *

He woke again to a burning heat beside him. For a moment, he was confused—was there a fire? Then he opened his eyes and saw Alex, flushed and sweating. The events of the last day came back in a rush and he sat up, detangling from Alex. Apparently Alex was a cuddler; he had wrapped himself around Gil very securely and a few times Gil worried that he would wake Alex while he sat up and freed himself.

He grabbed the thermometer and took Alex’s temperature—101ºF. Down a degree and a half from where he was last night. That was a good sign.

Alex whimpered. The clock read 6:30. Maman and Papa would be awake.

Just as he stood up, Papa knocked on the door.

“Good morning, Papa.”

If Papa was surprised to see Gil there, he didn’t show it. “Good morning, Gil. How is he?”

“His fever is down, but he hasn’t woken up.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s been through a lot recently, and his body needs time to heal.”

“He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” It sounded like something Papa had repeated a lot, and Gil wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “Get some breakfast. You have school today, don’t forget.”

“But Papa—”

Papa raised a hand and Gil fell silent. “You will be going to school. If Alex gets any worse, we’ll call you home.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Gil. I’ll text you when he wakes up, but you are to stay at school. Now go eat breakfast and get ready.”

Gil pouted through breakfast, sulked as he got ready, and brooded on the bus. Tom[6] tried to cheer him up but failed. Hercule and John tried to get him to crack a smile and received only a crabby “Leave me alone.” Even the lovely Adrienne[7] couldn’t get him to laugh, though she did manage to get him to smile. Neither Angelica nor Eliza fared any better. He couldn’t pay attention in any of his classes. He even snapped at little Peggy. Worry about Alex consumed him.

John and Hercule cornered him at lunch.

“Okay Gil, enough. What the hell happened?”

Gil sighed. It would be useless trying to get out of answering. “Remember how I told you that Maman and Papa were getting another foster son?”

“Yeah, we got your texts,” Hercule said, “Including the ones that say ‘shit what if he doesn’t like me’ and ‘OH NO HE’S HERE WHAT DO I DO’ in all caps. And then you didn’t respond to any of our texts after that.”

“We got a little worried, man,” John said. “So, what’s he like?”

“He’s…his name is Alex, he’s my age, he seems nice? We didn’t get much of a chance to talk before he collapsed.”

John’s jaw dropped.

“Collapsed?” Hercule repeated in an absurdly squeaky voice.

“Shit, is he okay?”

“He’s…I don’t know. Papa said he had a broken rib and an infection? He hasn’t woken up since last night.”

“That’s…shit, man, I don’t even know. That sucks.”

“How did he break his rib?” John asked.

Gil mumbled something that might have been ‘abuse’ but his phone buzzed before either of them could ask him to repeat it. 

_**Papa  
**  Alex just woke up. His fever is still at 101 and he’s hungry. Don’t leave school, he’s fine._

Gil sighed in relief. “He woke up.”

“Gil, no offense, but you are such a worrywart.”

“Holy shit, Jack, did you just call Gil a worrywart? You sound like an old lady.”

“Shut the hell up, Herc, and don’t call me Jack.” The conversation flowed from there, playful banter devolving into a playful wrestling match. Gil watched silently, still worried about Alex but feeling so much lighter for the telling.

The bell rang and lunch ended. They separated and shuffled off to their classes, joining the rivers of heads and bags and grumbles about teachers.

By the time the last bell rang and released Gil from his science class, he had prayed two decades[8] and barely resisted the urge to spam Papa and demand updates. He had, of course, texted Papa subtly under the desk during most of History. Papa’s responses were curt reminders to pay attention, but yes, Gil, Alex was fine.

It was more of a relief than Papa probably knew, to have the reassurance Alex was still breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] Lafayette was, actually, a Musketeer, because Lafayette's entire life sounds like it came out of a novel.  
> [2] In the real Mount Vernon, this room is one of the eleven bedrooms. For purposes of this story, because we don't use camber pots anymore and nobody needs that many bedrooms, it's been repurposed as a bathroom.  
> [3] Martha had two children from a previous marriage that George helped to raise: Jacky and Patsy Custis.  
> [4] Patsy died of an epileptic seizure as a teenager. Jacky was an aide to Washington during the siege of Yorktown, but died of 'camp fever,' which was probably epidemic typhus.  
> [5] She had. All four of her children and both of her husbands died before her of illness.  
> [6] Thomas Jefferson and Lafayette were close friends, although they disagreed on a number of topics, most notably slavery. Lafayette found it abhorrent, but Jefferson didn't.  
> [7] His wife. Remember how I said that Lafayette's life sounds like it came out of a novel? The two were tricked by their families into falling in love with each other. No, really.  
> [8] A decade is a set of ten beads on the rosary; a single decade can include up to fifteen prayers.
> 
> Translations:  
> Alex, chut, je suis ici. Tu es en sécurité. Tout ira bien, je le promets, // Alex, hush, I am here. You're safe. All will be well, I promise,  
> Chut, chut, tout ira bien. // Hush, hush, all will be well.  
> Au clair de la lune,  // By the light of the moon,  
> Mon ami Pierrot,  // My friend Pierrot,  
> Prête-moi ta plume  // Lend me your pen  
> Pour écrire un mot.  // To write a word.  
> Ma chandelle est morte,  // My candle is dead,  
> Je n'ai plus de feu.  // I have no more fire.  
> Ouvre-moi ta porte // Open the door  
>  Pour l'amour de Dieu. // For the love of God.


	3. Kinship

It was raining. Sander watched the drops against the thin glass as James and Mama argued. They had been arguing a lot lately, ever since Papa left. Sander didn’t understand why James was so upset about it, really. Papa would be back and he’d bring a treasure chest with him, he had _promised_. Papa wouldn’t lie to them.

“Hey, kiddo,” James said, crouching down to Sander’s level. “I’m gonna go look for Dad, so you gotta take care of Mom, ‘kay?”

“Is Papa lost?”

“Yeah, so I gotta go find him. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone, don’t worry.” James ruffled Sander’s hair.

“But I already know you’re gonna be gone!”

“Jeez, Sander, it’s an expression. I’ll be back soon, how’s that?”

A horrible possibility bloomed in Sander’s imagination. “What if you get lost?”

“I won’t get lost, Sander. And if I do, you’ll come look for me, right?”

“What if _I_ get lost?”

“Then Mom’ll come looking for us, and she won’t get lost. She’s Mom, she always knows where we are.”

It was true. Sander could never hide where he’d been from Mama, and neither could James.

“Why doesn’t she look for Papa, then?”

James was silent for a while.

“Sander, she, uh, she doesn’t think Dad’s lost. She thinks he just left and isn’t coming back.”

“But Papa promised he’d be back!”

“I know, I know, she’s just being silly. Dad wouldn’t lie to us.” James ruffled Sander’s hair again.

“James…” Mama said. “If you can’t find him in a month, come back, okay?”

“I promise, Mom. I’ll come back.”

James opened the door and walked out into the rain, bag slung over his shoulder.

* * *

Alexander opened his eyes blearily. Everything was so hot and it hurt so bad, but Mama was here, holding him close, so everything would be okay. The stench was thick in the air as the sickness ravaged their small family. Mama’s brown skin had turned a jaundiced yellow, the disease wreaking havoc on her body.

His eyes started to close, exhaustion and pain old, familiar foes now, when he was racked with sudden chills. His eyes darted open, shivering despite the humid air and bright sun.

“Tout ira bien, Alexander. Je le promets.”

“Mama?” he croaked out. Her body was warm against his clammy skin.

“Can you sing for me, Alexander? Do you remember the song we used to sing together?”

He nodded.

“Will you sing it to me?”

His voice was harsh in his throat and rough against his tongue. “Au clair de lune…” he began, stopping to vomit over the side of the small bed they shared and onto the dirty floor. There was nothing left in his stomach, just bile. It splashed against the ground.

Mama stroked his hair gently as he retched up what little he had left in his stomach.

“Au clair de lune,” he tried again, “Mon ami Pierrot—” This time he was interrupted by a coughing fit. The pain in his back made even the slightest movements agony, and the fits of dry, unproductive coughs were far from slight movements.

Mama’s arms shook as she held Alexander close. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, shielding them from the outside world. Once upon a time it had been a glossy black, like a raven’s wing, then an elegant silver, but now it was a dirty white, brittle and thin.

“My brave Alexander,” she said, “You’ll do great things. One day you’ll blow them all away.” It had been the refrain of his childhood: whenever he did something, no matter how small, Mama would look at him like he had hung the moon and lit the stars, and whenever the others in the neighborhood would insult Mama she would tell him not to worry, not to fight them: one day he’d blow them all away and that would be enough for her, to know that her son had done great things.

Alexander would fight them anyway, because ‘one day’ was always too far away. Sure, he would do great things someday, but that wouldn’t get the neighborhood children to stop vandalizing Mama’s shop or stop the neighborhood adults from hissing slurs.

She kissed the top of his head as her arms started to slack and her embrace faded. The warmth she had been projecting out started to fail.

“Mama? Mama?”

His body trembled, whether from the shivers that wracked his body or from fear he couldn’t know. Mama’s eyes were half-closed, only a sliver of vivid purple visible.

“Mama, please, wake up! MAMA!”

* * *

It should be raining, Alexander thought as the sun beat down. It should be raining, and there should be a small crowd of people with black umbrellas. As it was, it was a hot day like any other, the sun indiscriminate to grief, and the only other people there were Mr. Stevens and Edward.[1]

James should be here. It was odd, he hadn’t thought of James in so long. After he had been gone for a month, Alexander started watching vigilantly for his older brother; but days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and then Mama had told Alexander, in a voice that faltered but never broke, that James wasn’t coming back.

Alexander had asked if he was lost.

In a way, Mama had said. James had been arrested for possession of illegal drugs.

Could you be let out of jail for your mother’s funeral? Did James even know?[2]

* * *

The winds howled and battered against the brick. The lights had gone out long ago, when the first winds began to howl, power lines flapping free in the gale. The silhouette of rain, illuminated by lightning, flashed through the boarded-up windows.

Mr. Stevens held Alexander and Edward close as the storm worsened. Their only light was a battery-powered flashlight that cast eerie shadows across their faces.

A crash echoed through the house. Alexander and Edward flinched away, watching in horror as a stop sign broke a window and tore through their makeshift barricade like paper. Water flooded through the gap in the wall.

“Alexander, Edward, close all the doors you can,” Mr. Stevens ordered. The water was rushing in faster now, wind whipping their hair into their faces.

And then everything stopped. The rain halted, the clouds parted; for a moment, a yellow sky. Moonlight illuminated the world, or what was left of it.

Mr. Stevens covered the hole in the wall with the debris that had came into the house. Alexander checked the books, a small shelf in the room he shared with Edward. They were his mother’s, returned to him by the charity of Mrs. Cowing,[3] and the only things he had from her. The books had only a few spots of the sulfurous water on their covers, by some miracle spared the destruction.

“Alexander?” Edward said. “Come on, Dad’s waiting for us.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He turned aside from the books, closing the door behind him.

The moon was blotted out by clouds, rain falling thick and fast. The eye of the storm had passed.

The barricade Mr. Stevens had constructed didn’t last long. Rainwater plastered Alexander’s hair to his face and soaked him to the bone. If he survived this, he would never be fully dry again.

He never saw what struck him, just felt the blow and had only enough to think, _Oh God, please don’t let me die—_

And everything went black.

* * *

When he came to, he was underwater. His eyes stung as he stared into the abyss before him: nothing but unbroken black water wherever he turned. No—there was a tiny light. His arms felt like lead, his legs like stone, but he struggled on second by agonizing second, moving relentlessly towards the light.

His head broke the surface of the water. He coughed and retched, expelling water from his lungs.

There was a single ray of sun, coming from the east; he was reminded of a passage from one of Mama’s books: _The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for among old parchments or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature by the hand of the divinity itself and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power._ [4] Now, perhaps, he understood some of it: the sunbeam, the pen, coming out of the gale to write upon humanity, upon the great wreck that the storm left. No mortal power could destroy this; salvation written in a sunbeam.

Dawn came, the sun rose. The storm relented. The Lord had heard his prayers.[5] The lightning ceased, the winds halted. Light filled the world, filled Alexander, and with it hope and surety. Things could not get worse: he had not drowned; though he had seen Death, scythe in hand, he had not died.

When he looked about, however, the surety faded. Everywhere there was misery. Most of the homes were utterly destroyed, the rest left in ruin. Bodies, limp and pale, littered the streets. A great cry, rendered unto Heaven, came with the dawn. Desolation and ruin was everywhere he looked.

* * *

He floated in a white void. His ribs ached; his chest full of sulfurous, brackish water. He coughed despite the stabbing pain it caused.  

“Easy there,” someone said. A man’s voice, warm with fondness and something perhaps paternal. “You gave us quite a scare, son.”

Papa? He hadn’t heard from his father in years. It had been so long, but who else could it be?

A large hand, rough with callouses, brushed his hair from his face and cradled his head. He couldn’t quite remember his father, but Alex knew that he was in his arms; knew it with an iron certainty.[6]

“Gil was beside himself with worry. When I came in to check on you, he was already here.” Gil?

Oh. It wasn’t his father who held him, it was Mr. Washington. He should have realized it earlier; his father had left them long ago. Why would he come back for Alexander, when he never had before?

He should move away, but it was so nice to be held by someone. His instincts screamed at him that Mr. Washington was dangerous, that he was just pretending to be nice, but it was so exhausting to be always on guard. Just this once, just for the moment, he could relax into the warm embrace, right? He could pretend to be asleep and stay here in the warmth. He wanted to let his guard down for once, wanted to trust even reservedly. Besides, Mr. Washington couldn’t be mad at him when he had initiated the embrace and Alex was asleep.

Actually, he could, but it seemed unlikely.

After some time pretending to sleep, (though Alex couldn’t be sure how long it was, since he may have actually fallen asleep), his hunger overpowered all other desires. Time to pretend to wake up.

He started by yawning, blinking open his eyes.

“Good morning, Alex. How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” he mumbled.

“I’d imagine. Stay in bed, I’ll get you some breakfast.”

Alex had no intention of leaving the bed unless absolutely necessary. It was soft and warm and fluffy; he would happily stay right there for the rest of his life.

His bag was on the table. He could see the corner of one of the books peeking out, inviting him to open it and reread it.

Of course, he’d have to get out of bed first to reach it.

Mr. Washington had ordered him to stay in bed, and it seemed very nice to stay in bed, but he also wanted to read. Mr. Washington didn’t need to know he had gotten out of bed, not as long as he was quick, and it wasn’t very far at all to the table.

He stood up, head swimming for a moment, and he grabbed the book. He climbed back into bed, got under the covers, and opened the book.

The cover was still stained with seawater, the edges of the pages warped and discolored, and the whole of it had a faint smell of sulfur he expected would never fully come out.

He opened it to a random page and began reading, the shapes of the words as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Thirty-four books, each one so familiar he could recite them from memory.

 _Now all shame is exhausted, for in the weakened state of the commonwealth things cane to such a pass that, while Gallenius conducted himself in the most evil fashion, even women ruled most excellently,_ the ancient author wrote. _For, in fact, even a foreigner, Zenobia by name, about whom much has already been said—_

Mr. Washington rapped against the door as he entered, carrying a tray loaded down with food one handed. Alex pushed the book under the pillows.

“Martha cooks a lot, so don’t feel bad if you can’t finish it all,” Mr. Washington said as he set the tray down. “Go slow.”

Glancing at Mr. Washington for approval, he picked up a fork. Hesitantly, he took a bite of eggs.

Then another and another, and before he realized what had happened, he had eaten all the food on the tray.

“You must have been hungry. Would you like some more?”

He wanted to say yes, but instead he shook his head.

“Are you sure? There’s more than enough.”

“No thank you, sir.” This was an easy test; nobody wanted a greedy, gluttonous boy.

“You don’t need to call me sir, Alexander. Just George will do.”

It was getting annoying, this facade of kindness. If he had learned anything from the Bradens,[7] it was that this wouldn’t last. The nicer they acted, the worse the punishment would be when it inevitably came.

Mr. Washington’s phone chimed in his pocket.

“It’s from Gil. He’s worried about you,” he explained. “And I know he has class right now, which he should be paying attention to instead of texting me.” He sighed and typed something quickly.

Alex didn’t want Gil to get hurt, but maybe at least the Washingtons would show their true colors when he was punished.

* * *

When Gil came home a few hours later, Alex was fairly sure the whole of Virginia could hear him crashing through the doors and running up the stairs.

“Alex! You’re awake!” Alex glanced over the cover of his book. Gil looked like he had run all the way up to the room, which may not have been inaccurate, given the cacophony that had accompanied his arrival.

“If I wasn’t, the racket you made would have woken me.” Alex tried to sound annoyed. Gil just grinned and sat down on the bed next to him.

“I will not apologize. Are you feeling better?”

“A little bit? Mostly hungry, ’cuz nothing I eat will stay down.”[8]

“Excellent! Well, not excellent about the hungry thing, but excellent you’re feeling better! We were all worried about you.”

“We?”

“My friends John and Hercule. You would like them, I think. It is very hard not to like John,[9] he is—” Gil floundered for a moment, “Oh, what did Eliza call him, a cinnamon roll.[10]”

“A cinnamon roll,” Alex repeated, deadpan.

“Oui. A cinnamon roll. I do not understand much of what Eliza and Angelica speak of, they use too many…Americanisms.”

“…Who are Eliza and Angelica?”

“Oh, more of my friends. You know, you and Eliza might make a cute couple. What are you reading?”

“It's called _The Lives of the Thirty Pretenders._ ”

“Is that from Papa’s library? I don’t recognize it.”

“No, it’s mine.” Gil peered over the edge of the cover, looking at the pages.

“Ooh, is that Latin?”

“Yes? The English translations are on the opposite page.”

“What’s it about?”

“The thirty-two people who tried to usurp the power of the Roman emperors. Most of them are connected to this one woman, Zenobia. She was a queen of the Roman colony of Palmyra.[11] After her husband died, she became queen regent for her young sons and then just took power for herself. She also declared herself descended from Cleopatra[12]—sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I.”

“What? No! This is really interesting, don’t stop.”

“Okay? Um, so Zenobia started invading and conquering all the neighbors, and when Rome finally noticed that Palmyra was gaining a lot of power, the emperor Aurelian went down there with his army to stop her, and won, except that the Senate was really confused because Aurelian was leading a woman in triumph like she was a general, so Aurelian had to justify why he had taken Zenobia prisoner. Also, Zenobia was really sassy, and when Aurelian asked her why she had dared to go against Rome, she said that the other emperors weren’t really emperors, and that she believed Victoria was a woman like her, so she decided to start conquering shit.”

“You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

“Not really, but I only have a few books, so I’ve reread them a lot.”

“Papa has a lot of books, you know. I’m sure he’d let you read them if you wanted.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose or anything…”

“Papa has more books than he knows what to do with. It’s not a big deal.”

Alex’s retort was cut off by a gentle knocking on the open door.

“Boys,” Mrs. Washington said, “It’s dinnertime. Come downstairs.”

“Oui, Maman. C’mon, Alex, food.”

Alex grit his teeth as he stood, ribs flaring with pain. Gil must have noticed, because before he could realize what was happening, Gil had one of Alex’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and

was supporting most of his weight.

“I can walk, you know.”

“I’m sure you can,” Gil said amiably. “Just like I’m sure that you’ll make yourself even worse if you do. So I am going to help you down the stairs and you are not going to get any more hurt on my watch.”

Alex didn’t want to admit it, but Gil probably had a point.

They must have looked like the world’s worst three-legged race: Alex’s arm wrapped around Gil, half-lifted off the ground because Gil was so much taller.[13] The stairs were difficult, and Gil ended up just carrying Alex most of the way down. By the time they reached the dining room, Gil was still carrying him and ignoring his increasingly half-hearted protests.

The table was loaded with food, all on china platters: ham, fish, potatoes, a vegetable salad, and a pie on a side table. It was more food than Alex had ever seen in one place at one time, and certainly not on porcelain plates.

It was so strange, seeing Mr. and Mrs. Washington smiling, sitting at the table, Gil solid at his back, and know with utmost certainty that this idyll wouldn’t last long. It couldn’t. This was a dream—but if it was a dream, where was James? Where was Edward, Papa, Mama?—but this wasn’t real, there was no way there were strangers who just took care of random children social workers drop on their doorstep.

Were there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] Alexander Hamilton may have actually been Alexander Stevens. After his mother’s death, he was taken in by Thomas Stevens, and became fast friends with his son, Edward. The two were so close that many mistook them from brothers: they looked very similar, both spoke French, and had similar interests. As well, James Hamilton Sr. took no pride in Alexander’s successes and had no particular bonds to him, unlike his other son James Jr.  
> [2] No and no.  
> [3] After her death, Rachel Faucette’s belongings went to her husband, Johann Lavien. The books were returned to young Alexander by a family friend, who bought them from Johann. Mrs. Cowing is my own invention since I can’t find out who the family friend was.  
> [4] This is from _The Farmer Refuted_ , which was written by a college student named Alexander Hamilton. You may have heard of him.  
> [5] Alexander was a very religious man. While his church attendance was irregular at best, he would pray for two hours every day, one hour in the morning and one at night.  
> [6] Well, he’s not wrong.  
> [7] Mr. Braden, while I doubt you’re reading this, I just want you to know that you can go fuck yourself with a handful of rusty nails and that my one regret from your class was that I didn’t punch you in the face for all the shit you said.  
> [8] Due to a combination of refeeding syndrome and pneumonia.  
> [9] This is historical fact and not an exaggeration at all. Everybody liked John Laurens. After his death, a loyalist newspaper printed an obituary that sang his praises for paragraphs. The only fault they could find in him was that he was a patriot and not a loyalist.  
> [10] A cinnamon roll that, among other things, nearly killed his commanding officer in an illegal duel. A sinnamon roll.  
> [11] Present day Syria.  
> [12] Yes, that Cleopatra (Cleopatra VII). She…probably wasn’t, but we can’t prove it.  
> [13] Alexander wasn’t all that short; he was 5’7” (170 cm) at a time when the average height was 5’5”(165 cm), but everyone around him was tall: George Washington was 6’2” (187 cm), John Laurens may have been 6’3”* (190 cm), and Lafayette was around 6’** (182 cm).  
> *We…don’t know how tall John was, exactly. He was tall, and a letter from his father Henry Laurens indicates he was 6’3”, but he could have been anywhere from 5’11” to 6’3”.   
> **We aren’t sure how tall Lafayette was, either, but all sources agree he was only a little shorter than Washington and taller than Alex—around 5’11” or 6’.
> 
> Translations:  
> Tout ira bien, Alexander. Je le promets. // All will be well, Alexander. I promise.  
> Au clair de lune // By the light of the moon  
> Mon ami Pierrot // My friend Pierrot


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a month since Alex arrived at Mount Vernon. His ribs had healed, the infection gone. He had slowly and begrudgingly accepted that the Washingtons might not be simply playing nice, that they might be actually as nice as they appeared—it was a hesitant trust, and a fragile hope.

Alex wandered through the gardens, wrapped in so many jackets he was pretty sure he was approximating a sphere. Look, it’s cold in Virginia, especially in November, and he’s from the Caribbean.[1] Cold isn’t something he’s really used to.

Gil grabbed him in a bear hug, lifting Alex off the ground and squeezing him tightly. Alex was pretty sure he could hear bones cracking.

When Gil loosened his death grip enough that Alex could breathe again, he asked, “What was that for?”

“I missed you.”

“You saw me ten minutes ago, Gil, we live in the same house.”

“Still missed you.” Gil dropped his chin onto the top of Alex’s head. “You’re so tiny.”

“Am not.[2] You’re just a giant.”

“I could probably fit you in my pocket and carry you to school with me.”

“There is so much wrong with that.”

“Anyway, I didn’t come out here just to hug you—”

“Yeah, you just came out here to _bug_ me—”

Gil ignored his hilarious pun. “Papa left his study unlocked. He’s in the New Room and Maman is in town which means neither of them are paying attention to what we do.”

“Gil, if you’re suggesting we break into his study—”

“It’s not breaking in, he left it unlocked! Aren’t you curious?”

“Curiosity killed the cat and will get the boys into trouble, so much trouble, I am not doing this, Gil, this is a terrible idea. And you’ve had some terrible ideas in the past. Remember the glove incident?”

“That was both not my fault and completely different. Besides, I will be going into his study with or without you. You can come along, or you can stay out here and have absolutely no fun.”

“Gil, I’m serious. I know things are…different, with them, but this is the one thing they’ve actually forbidden. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Alex…”

“I—” he furiously swept at his eyes. “I can’t—”

“Alex, Papa won’t hurt us.”

“ _Please._ Gil, I know—I know they’ve said they don’t, and I know you’ve said they don’t, but I don’t want you hurt. I can’t lose another brother.” Immediately after the words left his lips he regretted them, because Gil’s face transformed into shock and confusion. Alex could all but hear the questions Gil wanted to ask him, questions with answers Alex couldn’t give.

So he pushed past Gil and ran.

There’s a curious thing about running: either you’re running to something, or you’re running from something. Sometimes this is literal, sometimes this is more metaphorical. One can run from the physical threat of a tiger, or from the more emotional threat of an awkward conversation. Or, of course, there is the opposite: one can run to a party or to a spot of dry in the rain.

As for Alex?

Alex ran from all of Gil’s questions and from their answers. He ran from the ghosts of souls not yet departed and the ever present storm, looming on the horizon. He ran from the tears he could feel slipping down his cheeks. He ran until he couldn’t run any more, crashing through branches and bushes, twigs scratching at his bare hands and face.

He wasn’t sure where he was.

At some point he had run off the edge of familiar ground. A hush fell over the area. Nothing made a sound. Even the wind in the leaves seemed muted. His footsteps slowed, and leaves stopped crunching underfoot. The dirt paths of the gardens and woods faded into brick and a set of steps descended down a hillside.

The river was just barely visible through the trees. A low stone wall surrounded the paved outcropping. The air seemed old, somehow, like it had been sealed away for years. He looked up and saw the sun hanging in the sky, right where it should be. Clouds passed across the heavens. The top branched of trees bent and swayed in the wind. But below the distant empyrean and the canopy of fiery leaves, all was deathly still.

He shouldn’t be here.

What was this place?

He turned around slowly, half-afraid of what he would see.

Trees, their leaves everywhere except on the stone. The distant glint of water. Vines of ivy and untamed bushes. A red brick building with a wooden door, ivy beginning to grow over it. Another set of steps, identical to the ones he had come down, leading somewhere else.

It didn’t explain why he felt like an interloper. There was no sign that this place, whatever it was, was anything more than some old building, abandoned now that it wasn’t needed anymore.

There were dozens of them at Mount Vernon, relics of the days when they would need a blacksmith or whatever on the property. He pulled at the wooden door. It swung open easily, revealing the interior.

* * *

Gil stood, rooted to the ground, while Alex pushed past him. He could hear Alex’s footfalls, growing more distant.

He was faster than Alex. He knew he was. He could easily chase after Alex and demand answers. Of course, that would require him to be able to move, which was eluding him at the moment. All he could seem to do was stand there and try to process the bombshell that Alex had dropped on him.

“I can’t lose another brother.” Alex…he really hoped Alex wasn’t referring to his previous foster family, because that was not something Gil could handle. Already he wanted to find whoever had hurt Alex and make them hurt, the implications of the other brothers Alex had lost being from the foster family were too much for Gil. He couldn’t let himself believe that. Which of course left only one other option available: that Alex had brothers before he went into the foster system. What had happened to them? Alex didn’t talk about his past except in the barest and sketchiest of details: everything before he went into the system could, apparently, be simplified into ‘I’m from St. Croix.’

Had there been other Hamiltons, out in the world? What happened to them?

He should go after Alex. Mount Vernon was huge, but Alex was sensible enough to stick to the paths. He couldn’t have gone far. On the other hand, Alex obviously wanted space, so maybe Gil should leave him be.

Gil wandered out of the garden and towards the house. Maman was still in town, and Papa was probably still with his guests—no, he was, he could see them sitting in the New Room. The study was unguarded.

_I don’t want you to get hurt._

He stood in front of the door to the study for a long moment, hand hesitating on the doorknob.

Papa wouldn’t need to know. Just a peek couldn’t hurt. What could possibly be in there that Gil didn’t already know? Papa didn’t keep secrets.[3]

He walked around the side of the house, past the cellar, and onto the grassy hill of the East Front. Alex had been scared to tears at the thought of Gil being punished for sneaking into Papa’s study.

The allure of the unlocked study was replaced with worry. How did Alex do it? How did he get Gil to worry about him so much?[4]

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out.

_** tortue garçon ** _  
_whats it like in there_

Right, he had told John his plan.

He hesitated over the message, trying out phrases and deleting words.

_Papa’s meeting ended before i got in :(_

_that sucks man_  
_u didnt get caught tho rite?_

_If i had gotten caught do u think i would still have my phone?_

_tru_  
_thats tru_

The cry of a murder of crows startled him from the conversation. He should make sure Alex was all right. It was getting late.

He started by walking back to the upper gardens, where he had last seen Alex. It was unlikely Alex had gone back there, but it was a good place to start. From there, he retraced Alex’s steps: he had run off to the right of the greenhouse…

Mount Vernon wasn’t all that large. As long as Alex didn’t end up out in the farms, there wasn’t many places he could be. Gil could find him.

He started with the North Lane. He hadn’t seen Alex around the house, so he probably wasn’t there. Next was the South Lane, but there was still no sign of Alex. He might have gone to the lower gardens? No, there was no sign of him there.

When he had searched the nursery he noticed a small, half-forgotten path curving off into the woods.

He followed it out into the woods. This path wasn’t well maintained at all: roots broke through the ground every few meters and a thick layer of leaves crunched underfoot.

He could hear muffled sobs in the distance, and began running. When the dirt path changed to brick he barely noticed because he could see Alex, curled into a ball, knees to his chest and sitting on the low brick wall.

“Alex?”

Alex looked up at Gil, face stained with tears.

“It’s getting late. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Gil sat on the wall next to Alex. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Alex was quiet for a long time, staring out between the trees at the river.

“When I was five, my father left.” That was unexpected. “Well, he was probably my father. Might not have been. Anyway, he up and left one day. Told us he was going to find treasure, promised he would be back soon. We never saw him again. Three years later my older brother James went looking for him and got arrested for possession of illegal drugs and honestly he’s lucky immigration didn’t get him, ‘cuz we’re illegals. Then my mother and I both got malaria and I watched her die. I would have gone to live with my cousin but he committed suicide so I went to live with my friend Edward and his father right up until a hurricane came and destroyed half the island. I survived by dumb luck. Then I went into the foster system and got tossed from group home to group home until the Bradens, got the shit beaten out of me, and then I went back into the system and got tossed around some more until I ended up here. There you go, my life story. And now you know.”

Gil was silent for a moment, digesting the information.

“I never knew my birth father,” he said, finally. “He died when I was an infant. My birth mother didn’t…handle it well, and she left me to be raised by my grandmother. I think she’s—my birth mother, that is—I think she’s still alive?[5] I haven’t heard from her in—ever, actually. Anyway, grand-mère was friends with Papa, and when she passed away she gave custody of me to him. I was six, I barely spoke English, I had met Papa maybe once before. You know, Papa likes his gardens. Maman doesn’t really care much about growing things, she likes flowers in vases and in art and all, but she doesn’t like the messier parts of how the flowers grow. Papa planted the gardens and takes care of them. And he likes things to look naturaliste, no? But when he took me in, he…he planted parterres, even though they don’t match the rest of the grounds,[6] because he wanted me to feel at home.” Gil laughed a little. “I had no idea! But he had added them, just because he knew I would be feeling out of place.”

Alex glanced over at Gil, uncurling like a blooming flower. Gil made a note to never mention that metaphor to Alex, he’d probably get smacked for his trouble.

“You know, I never did get to see what Papa keeps in the study.”

“One day we’ll break in.”

“I’m holding you to that, li—” Was Alexander his younger brother?

“Gil?”

“I just realized I have no idea how old you are.”

“Fourteen.”[7]

“No way. No way you’re fourteen, you cannot be the same age as me, you're tiny.”

Alex grinned. "January eleventh, two thousand one."

“You're older than me?” Gil gasped in mock horror. "Impossible. Inconceivable! You are too small to be the older brother."

“Short jokes,” Alex deadpanned, "Hilarious. Never heard those before." It wasn't lost on Gil that he hadn't protested the brother comment.

He sat on the wall beside his brother and watched the river through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] This _angelino_ knows your pain, Alex.  
>  [2] Kinda are, Ham my man.  
> [3] You'd be surprised, Gil.  
> [4] My theory is a potent fraternal miasma.  
> [5] She's not.  
> [6] Mount Vernon really does have parterres, shaped in a fleur de lis, and they really were to show Washington’s affection for Lafayette. They also don’t match the rest of the aesthetic of the grounds, which were heavily inspired by British naturalistic landscaping. And now you know!  
> [7] When Alexander Hamilton arrived in the colonies to attend college, he claimed to be seventeen. He might have been lying. There are two possible birth years for Hamilton, and both have evidence supporting them. Was he born in 1755 or 1757? You decide!
> 
> Translations:  
> naturaliste // naturalistic  
> merde // shit
> 
> EDIT 11 MAY: fixed the ages and tweaked the ending.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the last chapter for a while. The story notes go into more detail about it.
> 
> I'm sorry I kept you all waiting for four months for this chapter. Hopefully it's worth it.

In late November, when Gil was on Thanksgiving break and Alex was still grumbling about the cold, George realized that Alex should probably be in school. So far they had dodged the question with Alex’s rib—and there was a thought to send a shiver down his spine, that there was a family in his country that would break a boy’s rib as _discipline_ —but that excuse couldn’t last now that Alex’s rib had healed.

Gil, he knew, had no trouble in school, academically or socially. Alex wouldn’t have any trouble with the academics of it, the boy was incredibly bright, but socially was a whole other story.

Alex and Gil got along, but children could be cruel; and while he liked to think that the school wasn’t utterly neglectful, he did remember those times Gil came home with a black eye and a reprimand for fighting. George had been called into the Head of School’s office more times than he could count because Gil had been defending someone, usually Adrienne. George and Henry[1] were often called into the office together to explain why their sons had been fighting someone. The answer was almost always that the other children were picking on someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t fight back, and they were defending them.

Even with Gil defending him, Alex could still be hurt. Coming in in the middle of the school year, tiny even with months of nothing but Martha’s cooking…George didn’t like assuming the worst of people. He really didn’t. But Alex would be a target for bullying and Gil couldn’t be expected to watch Alex every second of the day.

He could homeschool Alex. From what little he knew of the boy’s childhood (as though he wasn’t still a child) he didn’t seem to have the most consistent of schooling. [2] Spending a year homeschooled to even out his education and to catch him up in the subjects he had fallen behind on would be good for the boy.

(One of the documents in the folder Eleanor had given him when Alex arrived implied that he had entered the workforce only two years ago.

George had known, abstractly, that there were children who had jobs. It was a vague, nebulous thing that had never really concerned him, even as President. There were child labor laws, and those would protect children, and there were of course a few children who had summer jobs or after-school jobs for a bit of pocket money; and there were the teenagers who were engaged in illegal jobs, who law enforcement would punish, and that was all.

Alex, working as a clerk to keep himself fed and sleeping on a friend’s couch, passed over by the system until a hurricane came. Now there were thoughts to keep him up at night.)

George paced the study. It wasn’t a large room; by design it was really only big enough for two to work comfortably, and in recent years it was only big enough for one.

The memory struck him: Patsy curled up in one chair, sketchbook on her knees, laughing at something Jacky had said; Jacky, sitting at a side table, with his textbook and homework open in front of him, joking around instead of working; George at his own desk, knowing he should be telling Jacky to get back to work but saying nothing, watching Jacky bend back over his notes.

“Dad,” Memory-Jacky complained, “Why do we need to know the details of every battle in the Revolution, it’s not like I’m ever going to use this in real life.”

“The tactics used by men like General Jackson[3] influence military strategy today,” George had said. “It will be crucial that you study and understand history if you want to accomplish anything in life.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Study history or repeat it, you’ve told me a million times.”

The memory faded away, and George was left alone in the study.

The large bookcases were new and largely empty, and took up much of the room that once held another desk. A sharply folded flag sat on one shelf, next to a photo of a much younger George and a young Jacky, only about fifteen, standing next to Patsy. Both children’s faces were split wide with grins, their arms wrapped around each other.

He remembered the day it was taken as though it were yesterday. He and Martha had taken Jacky and Patsy out on a trip to the Grand Canyon for a weekend. Martha had taken the picture, and scolded Jacky whenever he would fidget. Patsy ended up grabbing him in a sideways hug to make him still long enough for Martha to photograph their little family.

It was one of the few pictures they had of Patsy.

On the other side of the flag was a photograph of Jacky in his uniform, saluting the camera. He had pulled strings to get Jacky deployed near him, away from the action.[4] Selfish, of course, but he never claimed to be a perfect man, and it hadn’t done any good anyway. Jacky never came home again.

(George held Jacky as he died, bloody and terrified.

“It’s so cold, dad. Why is it so cold?”)[5]

He forced himself away from the bookcase and the painful memories it held in cherry wood and glass.

On the other side of the window, snow began to gently fall. Gil and Alex ran across the yard, laughing as they fell on the slippery walk.

Alex had been beaten, battered, bruised, and broken by people he should have been able to trust. George hadn’t known, but what excuse was that? He hadn’t known that a bomb would have gone off or that shrapnel would have hit Jacky, but it was still his fault. George would not fail his sons. Not again.

* * *

If Gil put one more handful of snow down the back of his jacket, Alex swore he was going to kill him. At first it had been kind of funny, but now it had half-melted and soaked the fabric of the jacket, leaving Alex cold and wet.

Snow had seemed nice at first. It had seemed soft and fluffy, which it was, but Alex had failed to account for the _cold_. He hated it. It seemed like some kind of betrayal. It looked so nice when it was fat fluffy flakes falling from the sky, and it was soft, and crunched under his new boots, and then it betrayed him by being cold.  

Just to make matters worse, Gil had noticed his distaste for being cold and wet and had nicknamed him _matou_.

Memories of the hurricane flickered in his periphery. He ignored them. He knew where he was, and he knew which brother had his arm around Alex’s shoulder.

_I’m in Mount Vernon. It’s November of twenty-fifteen. I’m outside, with my brother Gil, and we’re playing in the snow. It’s cold, but I’m not cold, because I’m wearing a jacket. It’s a little scratchy._

“—Alex. Alex?” Gil waved a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Alex?”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“You, how you say, zoned out.”

“We both know you know how to say zoned out.”

Gil shrugged. “Oui, but it is funny.”

“I will never understand you,” Alex muttered.

Tiny flakes tumbled and fell around them, catching in Gil’s curls and tangling in his ponytail. The wind picked up, and there was a distant roar.

Both Alex and Gil ran to the house as the gentle snowfall picked up into a small storm. Gil was laughing a little, shaking his head like a dog to get the snow out of it—Alex was less amused. _I’m in Mount Vernon. It’s November of twenty-fifteen. I’m in Mount Vernon. I’m with Gil. It’s twenty-fifteen._

* * *

Alex had been acting oddly for a while—since they had gone outside, really. He would stand still for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes, and then snap back to reality. A few times he had looked at Gil like a stranger, once he had nearly called Gil by someone else’s name.[6]

Gil wanted to know what phantom wore his flesh. Who was Alex seeing? Were they friend or foe? But at the same time he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer, and he knew Alex hated talking about his past.

So he waited. He had the vivid memory of doing the same thing with John, back when they had first met. Just waiting, being friendly and kind, and was rewarded with what was bothering his friend.

Then a number of things happened simultaneously. The first was Maman coming into the room, carrying a large covered platter. The second was Alex swinging himself around the bannister, and the third was Maman and Alex running into each other.

The platter went flying and hit the hardwood floor. Porcelain shattered. Alex, who had fallen in the initial collision, was frantically picking up large shards of porcelain with his bare hands.   
“Alex, don’t do that, you’ll cut yourself,” Maman said. “Gil, go get a broom.”

Gil left, and when he had gotten a reasonable sized broom, Papa was there and Alex was kneeling in the shards.

“Sorry,” said Alex, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—” He started to tear up. “I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad, I won’t do it again, I—I—” Papa reached out to him, and Alex flinched back, practically throwing himself away from Papa. “No, no please don’t—I’ll be good, I promise—” Tears had started to stream down his face, and he scrubbed them away.

He looked so small. Gil was suddenly hyper aware of how tall he was in comparison, how broad his shoulders were—and Alex was small, and scared, and he was looking at Papa with undisguised fear. Alex was curled in on himself—a small, cold voice in the back of his head informed him that he was protecting his organs and damaged rib from harm—and becoming less coherent by the minute. Someone had hurt Alex, and had kept hurting Alex, and hurt him worse than just the broken rib and the bruises. Gil wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to make this better, but he had no idea how.

He had a flash of an idea. He leaned the broom against the wall, crossed the room to stand between Alex and Papa. He knelt down, porcelain shards digging into his knees, and wrapped his arms around Alex.[7]

“It’s okay,” he whispered, “It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe now.” He kept repeating it until Alex had stopped shaking in his hold.   
There was a heartbeat and then Alex clung to Gil, buried his face in Gil’s shoulder, and started sobbing.

“Alex? You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, I’m just—really not okay, actually.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not—not here.” Alex seemed to be trying to crawl inside Gil, he was hugging him so tightly.

“Okay.” He rubbed circles between Alex’s shoulder blades while he tried to figure out how to fix this. “Okay,” he repeated. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

Alex nodded into his shoulder.

* * *

In a hurricane, there is a moment where the storm ceases. Everything seems to be over. Then the eye passes and the storm resumes, worse than before.

A week after the incident with the broken dish, Gil got sick. It started innocently enough. A cough. A sneeze. Nothing to be worried about. The next day, Gil had a fever and was vomiting, retching loud enough that Alex could hear him through the walls of their rooms.

In spite of all rationality, all Alex could think of was one fact he knew to be true: Gil was sick and Alex cared about him; therefore, Gil was dying. Since Gil was dying, he would want someone to be with him, and Alex was nearest.

He slipped into Gil’s room, careful not to wake him. Gil was buried under a mound of blankets and pillows, and the whole room smelled like a sick teenager. Alex slid under the first few layers of blankets—there was no way he was going under all of them, he didn’t want to melt—and curled up against Gil. He could feel the fever through the covers, burning hot and awful.

Gil was a heavy sleeper, though that might have been the weight of the quilts, and the soft sound of his breathing—shallow, but rhythmic—lulled Alex off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] Henry Laurens, John Laurens' father.  
> [2] Historically, he actually did—the local Church of England wouldn’t accept him because he was a bastard, so he was educated at a private school led by a Jewish headmistress.  
> [3] General Christopher Jackson, who later became the first president of the United States.  
> [4] As noted on Chapter 2, Jacky Custis was an aide-de-camp to his stepfather.  
> [5] Blood loss.  
> [6] Ned, in case you were curious.  
> [7] Do not do this. If you see someone having a flashback, touching them is a bad idea. In this case it works out, but if you touch someone having a flashback you could very easily end up making the situation worse. I personally get violent when I’ve been triggered, touching me is a good way to get kicked in the stomach. I cannot emphasize this enough: DO NOT TOUCH THE PERSON HAVING A FLASHBACK. Unless they are in immediate danger and need to move immediately (for example, they’re in the way of an oncoming train) there is no reason to touch them. 
> 
> Translation:  
> matou // tomcat

**Author's Note:**

> My very dear readers,
> 
> I have some terrible news. 
> 
> I'm not going to be writing anymore. Make no mistake, you all have been lovely. I could never ask for a better group of readers. This is nothing you could prevent. You probably don't know this unless you follow my tumblr, pidge-is-a-girl, but I'm living with my abusive mother and the situation has gotten a lot worse very suddenly. I'm not in any physical danger, don't worry, but I am in a very toxic situation and there is no way I'm going to be able to be writing any more in this situation. I am about to get out of here…by moving about three thousand miles to the other side of the continent. It's going to be a while before I can really sit down and write for more than a few minutes at a time. 
> 
> I enjoy writing. I enjoy hearing from all of you, I enjoy getting feedback and nice messages. I reply to all of them because I love all of you guys. This story isn't abandoned yet. I'll probably pick this up again when my living situation is stable and safe. Until then, however, please enjoy the last chapter I write. 
> 
> This isn't goodbye, not yet. Just a farewell until next time. 
> 
> I'll see you on the other side. I have had the honor to be  
> Your obedient servant,  
> procellous.
> 
>  **Update: 22 August**  
>  Thank you all for your well-wishes. I've moved safely, and I'm away from my mother for the next few months at least. It's been really hard, moving away from the place I've lived for nearly two decades, and I'm still not entirely okay. One of the worst parts about long term abuse is that you don't hate your abuser, not entirely.
> 
> When planning out this story, I decided to read other stories where Alex was an abuse survivor. There is always a subtle difference in the stories—a story that was not written by an abuse survivor always rings a little (sometimes a lot) false. There's a nuance that no amount of research can duplicate. And that nuance is that you love your abuser. This is why I cannot forgive my mother, because I cannot lay aside the fact that she abused me anymore than I cannot lay aside the fact that she helped me with derivatives and bee stings. 
> 
> I am a bad survivor. I tell a bad story. There is the story where I fight back, and it's a true one—there was a time when I matched her, aggression for aggression. It turned out badly, which makes it a bad story. The story where I fight back is supposed to end with a teenage runaway, seeking adventure. Instead it ended with me cowed, ashamed, apologizing. There is the story where I quietly suffer until I am rescued, and that's not even close to true. 
> 
> The true story is this: I didn't know I was being abused. The true story is this: I was a child, a child who ran and played and laughed, and who came home muddy, and my mother yelled at me for daring to be a child and messy. The true story is this: I only realized it was abuse when I realized I was justifying my mother striking me with "It's my fault, I provoked her." The true story is this: I still doubt it was really abuse. 
> 
> _with no one to make them afraid_ has always been a deeply personal story to me. From the beginning I wrote this story with the inherent bias of an abuse survivor, but I cannot yet exist in this story, because it is a story about recovery, about hope, and about trust. Those three things seem impossibly far away to me. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support and love. It has been an honor and a privilege.   
> Ever yours,  
> procellous.


End file.
